


Double-Sided Soldiers

by Ahmerst



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Later deviations from canon, M/M, Spoilers for chapter 42+
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-23 22:26:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ahmerst/pseuds/Ahmerst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the first day of training, Armin notices him. Sees that through the rows of young faces with nervous eyes and shaking knees, not everyone is afraid. That while others avert their gazes and blink quickly to keep tears at bay, he stares straight into the shouting face inches in front of him.</p><p>    That while others quake, bodies angling back and shoulders hunching in apology, he stands strong.</p><p>“What’s your name?” shouts the unit leader.</p><p>Armin thinks he sounds scared.</p><p>“Reiner Braun,” is the response that’s barked back. “From southeast of Wall Maria.”</p><p>    There’s nothing more to the exchange, and Armin knows what that means. That Reiner was there on that day, already subjected to the nightmare of what titans were capable of. Saw the mess of gore on the streets, limbs without owners, and bodies still warm with life though their eyes held a terrible blankness in death.</p><p>    But there’s no fear in his stance, in the deep ring of his voice. His back is straight and shoulders broad, and he seems unshaken by what he’s witnessed. It’s like he’s been through this before. As though he, unlike so many people, had known what was to pass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A commissions for [Unkat](unkat.tumblr.com/). (Spoilers beyond this point so if you haven’t read up until chapter 42, turn back now). A fic which deviates from canon in that Reiner and Bertholdt’s covers are not blown, and in which Armin slowly clues into the possibility that perhaps the one he’s come to see as more than a training partner is the enemy they’ve been preparing to fight all along.

On the first day of training, Armin notices him. Sees that through the rows of young faces with nervous eyes and shaking knees, not everyone is afraid. That while others avert their gazes and blink quickly to keep tears at bay, he stares straight into the shouting face inches in front of him.

That while others quake, bodies angling back and shoulders hunching in apology, he stands strong.

“What’s your name?” shouts the unit leader.

Armin thinks he sounds scared.

“Reiner Braun,” is the response that’s barked back. “From southeast of Wall Maria.”

There’s nothing more to the exchange, and Armin knows what that means. That Reiner was there on that day, already subjected to the nightmare of what titans were capable of. Saw the mess of gore on the streets, limbs without owners, and bodies still warm with life though their eyes held a terrible blankness in death.

But there’s no fear in his stance, in the deep ring of his voice. His back is straight and shoulders broad, and he seems unshaken by what he’s witnessed. It’s like he’s been through this before. As though he, unlike so many people, had known what was to pass.

 

———-

Months slip by, and Armin studies.

He studies dog-eared books and he studies passed-down techniques. He studies how you disarm a man at close quarters, and how to tack up a horse in minutes. Most of all, he studies his fellow unit members.

In time some have left, packed in the back of covered wagons and waiting to return to the frontier, unable to handle the stresses of what they’ve seen, and what they must do. No one speaks of them after they’ve left, recalls their faces or their names, how their nerve gave out.

Others have formed their own smaller groups within the unit.

Connie and Sasha practice with one another, half the time looking as if they’re putting on a comedic play for themselves. Jean and Marco become their own little duo that sit together when it come time to eat, Marco listening to Jean’s words with a kind of puppyish adoration in his eyes.

Ymir and Christa stick close to one another, a funny kind of pair. One a paragon of the seven virtues, the other observing a mindset closer to that of a thug. But opposites attract, and perhaps Christa will be a good influence on Ymir, a balance to her skewed morals.

It’s Reiner and his friends that Armin studies the most. Watches them together, both Bertholdt and Reiner intimidating in their height and size, Annie dwarfed in between them by comparison. She is slight, nearly diminutive with them at her sides, as though she were royalty with guards to protect her.

Armin knows she is more than capable of protecting herself. Anyone who has ever been pitted against her does.

The three of them stand close together at times, heads inclined toward each another in thoughtful conversation. They practice with one another for hours, and their movements speak of people who have done this before, and for a long time.

They are natural soldiers.

———

Above being a natural soldier, Reiner is a natural leader.

His eyes are stern and confident, watchful of those around him. He can spot weakness in others before they notice it themselves, and corrects with strong, sure words instead of shouted scare tactics. The extra food he’s given for his size is often snuck onto the plates of those overworked as punishment, famished and thankful for any crumb they can get.

His presence alone is often enough to stop brewing fights and sharp exchanges, the sound of his heavy footfalls quieting those with heated tempers. When that doesn’t work, his strength lends itself to picking up participating parties by the scruffs of their necks as easily as a mother cat would her kitten.

The way he tosses them aside is hardly kittenish, though.

But his hands, with large palms and flat, blunt nails, are capable of being gentle. Armin finds this out firsthand .

He’s struggling with his 3D maneuver gear, strapped in and hauled up on ropes. Off days, everyone has them, and today is his. Instead of the usual, calm rocking that he’s used to, his weight’s all thrown off. His body teeters and overbalances, arms flailing in panic as he tries to right himself.

The ground is suddenly on the horizon for him, and the first thought spiking through his mind is how many teeth he’s going to lose upon contact with it. The taste of blood is a terrible thing, heavy iron and with a buttery texture. He’s not looking forward to it.

But then the horizon is right once again, flat plains of grass and overcast skies, makeshift housing and the repurposed castle in the distance. There are hands on him, large, sturdy hands. One resting on the softness of his stomach, another engulfing the small of his back.

The touch is hot. Not like a warm beam of sunlight through a window, washing over the floor, but instead the heat of a stifling, breezeless day.

“Easy there, tiger,” comes Reiner’s voice. “You need all your teeth in to keep that pretty smile of yours.”

Armin’s head reels as his body adjusts to the situation, the adrenaline in his veins ebbing as seconds pass. He takes stock of his limbs, their positions, the fact that he’s not eating dirt. His eyes are wide and unfocused as he looks to Reiner, mind attempting to string together words while it’s still preoccupied with what it thought it would face.

“Thanks,” he says, an octave higher than he means to.

“Not a problem,” Reiner says. “Looks like they rigged you up wrong. You just put your weight in your heels, hold tight, and I’ll get you set up right.”

The stark heat against Armin’s skin stays put, even when Reiner’s hands are gone. It disperses into his nerves, through his veins, nearly makes him forget the words of advice to keep himself upright. He grips tight the straps holding him as he shifts his weight downward, his core tight and unyielding to keep him from capsizing.

“Like I thought, the cords are uneven,” Reiner says. With a rough tug of his hands, Armin feels his weight rebalance itself, even and smooth at last. “Mind telling me who hooked you up?”

It was Eren. Eren, who had been distracted with thoughts of titans and training.

“I don’t recall,” Armin lies. His voice is unshaken and sure, the lie easy to flick off his tongue.

“Well if you remember who they were, let me know. Gotta make sure no one cracks that valuable skull of yours,” Reiner says.

Everything in Armin wants to flinch when he sees one of those large hands come toward his face out of the corner of his eye, but all he receives is a light tap to the temple. It’s brief, the caring of a comrade.

Armin smiles and nods, tells Reiner that of course, if the name comes back he’ll mention it.

—————-

Armin is running through the woods and he is hurting. The sharp bite in his side, the small stitch of pain that had started five minutes into this run, is now a quickly consuming agony. His lungs feel two times too small, and the air is thick with moisture as rain pelts down on them. Mud splatters further up his legs with every stride, the traction of his boots gone in the poor weather. His socks are damp and his toes squelch grossly with each footfall.

This is training. This is what they must complete at the minimum, running through wooded thickets in storms with gear on their backs. The weight of his pack is heavy on his shoulders, digs into flesh and bruises.

The hooves of a horse thunder next to him as the instructor brings up the rear.

“Enjoying a stroll in the park, are we, Armin?” comes the roar of his voice. “Looking forward to being an appetizer for titans? Giving them a delicate little snack before they catch up to your teammates?”

“Sir, no, sir,” Armin responds. His voice is ragged with exertion and it takes him two breaths to complete his answer.

“Could have fooled me, kid. Wouldn’t be surprised to see you heading back to the frontier any day now. They could always use a few more punks picking up rocks and weeding the fields.”

The instructor charges ahead before Armin can respond, and the teammates ahead of him blur in the rain. Each sucked in breath is a fierce burn in his lungs, and he has the faint idea that no one will stop for him if he falls.

Why would they? No amount of intellect can increase his stamina, lengthen his legs, make him stronger. He wonders what would happen if he were to fail, even after two years of training. Would he be separated from Eren and Mikasa, forced into hard labor for the remainder of his life, made to leave what family he’d stitched together?

“Hand it over,” comes a voice from behind him.

There’s a hand then, grappling with one of the straps on his shoulders and yanking his pack clear off him in a single motion. Armin wipes his hand across rain-blurred eyes to see Reiner beside him, shrugging the second pack on as though it were light as a child’s knapsack.

“I won’t have you failing or falling behind,” Reiner says.

“They’ll fail you if they see this,” Armin warns. He’s seen it happen before.

“Well then, you’ll have to run behind me. Can’t exactly see you there.”

Armin does as Reiner says with a breathless gasp that’s meant to be his thanks. He paces himself behind Reiner, focused on the two packs being lugged along. He matches footsteps as best he can, hands clenched into fists as he fights on, bangs matted with water and sweat against his forehead.

Reiner tosses a glance from time to time over his shoulder, checking to make sure Armin stays behind him, that he hasn’t fallen back into the woods from exhaustion. The glances come more and more often, until Reiner’s nearly running with his eyes cast back.

“We’re almost there,” he says.

His strides shorten as he falls back to Armin’s side. With the path in front of him unblocked, Armin sees no one. Not the instructor, not his horse. Not a straggler or the sign of muddy treads to follow. The forest is devoid of noise aside from their own sloshing steps and the swift torrents of rain.

“Where is everyone?” Armin pants.

“They pulled ahead,” Reiner answers, breathing even and measured.

They are going to fail, Armin realizes. The instructor will see them padding into camp, Armin with nothing on his back, Reiner with double. A cut and dry case that’ll have them both on the outs.

It makes anger surge hot through Armin’s veins, anger at himself for being so weak as to let a teammate take the fall for him. It leaves him with a second wind, muscles burning as they work harder, faster.

He bounds ahead of Reiner, setting a furious pace as his hand snaps out to snatch his pack back. He shoulders it in a rush as he takes off, Reiner’s surprised shout already several feet behind him by the time he reacts.

Armin reaches the campsite on the heels of the last straggler, mouth open as he gasps in breath after breath, throat raw and body flagging. Reiner’s right behind him, claps a hand to his back in a congratulations that robs the rest of the strength from his body.

Armin falls to his knees, mud splashing against his front as his hands hit the wet ground.

“Much as I’d like to let you rest, this rain isn’t letting up anytime soon, and we still have to pitch our tent for the night,” Reiner says.

The grip on Armin’s elbow is what gets him to his feet, guides him a couple of short steps before it’s gone, taking his pack again. He doesn’t fight to get it back this time, doesn’t fight when the hand resettles on his elbow once more.

The spot Reiner picks to bed down on is sheltered under tall trees with full branches, close to other unit members who’ve had the same idea. Reiner is the brawn while Armin is the brains, smoothing out the instructions under clammy, shaking hands, reading out the steps between chattering teeth.

Their tent is up and minutes, leaving Reiner shirking his cloak once it’s done. He lets it drop in a wet heap to the ground before he’s working at the belts on his chest, hips, legs. He grabs his 3D maneuver gear as everything starts to fall from his body, covering them with his cloak as he leans them against a tree.

Armin mimics his movements at half the speed, fingertips numb with cold, fumbling as he unstraps himself. Rain seeps into his shirt all too fast, drenches him down to the bone marrow, leaves him shivering before he’s even got the buckles at his hips undone.

“Change out of those rags or you’ll freeze your tits off,” Reiner says. His hands are batting Armin’s aside, hurrying along the process. He takes Armin’s gear and places it next to his own, nudges them into the dry hollow of a dead tree.

“Seeing as how you’re so keen to help Armin, maybe you can give him yours if it comes to that,” says the instructor, eyeing them from atop his mount.

It’s an insult, but nothing more. They’ve passed.

Reiner nearly pops the buttons on Armin’s shirt as he undoes them, hands too large for such a delicate task. He allows Armin the dignity of at least keeping his pants on, though they both toe their boots off before Reiner’s pushing Armin inside the tent.

It isn’t spacious, but it’s dry. Their packs are inside, the sleeping rolls unfurled. Clothes lay half-dragged out of Reiner’s pack, ready to be changed into. He strips down with military efficiency, shirt tugged over his head, pants shoved down to his ankles as he steps out of them.

His underwear is about the only thing dry on him.

When he stretches, Armin watches the roll of his shoulder blades, the ripple of muscle beneath skin. He thinks that Reiner’s form is something that, if this were an entirely scholarly viewing of the male figure, would be described as textbook ideal.

But it’s not scholarly, because Armin is appreciating much more than any scholar would. There is a quickness in his heart and a heat battling the cold, and he knows it’s all too hormonal. Armin licks his cold lips and continues to watch, his still-soaked pants clinging to his legs as he continues to shiver.

“The drowned puppy dog look is real adorable on a face like yours, but you’re losing more heat standing around like that,” Reiner tells him when he turns around, dressed in a clean sleeping shirt and shorts. He runs a hair through his damp, cropped blond hair as he looks Armin over.

They work again as a team, Armin peeling off his soaked pants and throwing aside water-logged socks. His toes are a dark shade he doesn’t want to think much of, and his fingertips aren’t far behind. He wonders if his lips are the same, chilled and discolored with blues and purples.

Reiner rummages through Armin’s pack in the meantime, pulls out the standard-issue clothes they’ve all been given. It’s only when Reiner motions for Armin to hold his arms over his head, to let himself be dressed, that Armin stops him.

“I’m not a toddler, I’m not so weak that I need someone else to clothe me,” Armin says.

“This isn’t about being weak,” Reiner tells him.

“It’s entirely about being weak,” Armin snaps back, because isn’t it always? It’s about babying him, holding his hand through everything, protecting him from every slight and danger. “Are you trying to tell me you took my pack, pitched this tent, and went as far as to help me out of my gear, all because it was convenient for you?”

“Are you telling me you wouldn’t have done the same for me if I was falling behind?” Reiner asks.

He seems suddenly very near and very tall, and Armin finds too late that he’s backed himself into a corner.

“Of course I’d do the same for you,” Armin says, not a note of hesitation in his voice.

“And why is that?”

Reiner’s breath puffs against Armin’s face, and he realizes that Reiner’s leaning in, bending at the waist, to speak to him eye to eye.

“Because you’re a soldier, a comrade.”

“Exactly,” Reiner says, lips thinning as he smiles. “We’re here not only to protect those within the walls, but those fighting alongside us. It’s not about weakness, it’s about survival. Now get your damn arms up before I wrestle you into this.”

Armin raises his arms with a sigh of surrender. Leave it strong, blond, and handsome to talk his way out of confrontation. Armin supposes there’s a certain merit to what Reiner has to say, that accepting help doesn’t make you weak. It makes you survive.

The shirt Reiner slips over his head is dry and soft, worn from wear. It skirts the tops of his thighs and he’s too tired, too uncoordinated from cold and exhaustion, to care about pants. He wouldn’t even be able to bring himself to care enough to eat if Reiner wasn’t there the instant he sat in a graceless heap on his bedroll, strips of cured meat in one hand, a water pouch in the other.

Armin eats and drinks like a man who’s had neither for days. He answers questions between bites and gulps, says that yes, he’s feeling better, that no, his hands aren’t shaking worse than before. He flexes his fingers and toes for Reiner when prompted, though the movements are small and rigid.

The sensation when Reiner curls them manually is far away, dull.

“If you want me to fetch a medic, I’m sure there’s one nearby,” Reiner tells him.

“I’m fine, promise. Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix,” Armin says.

Reiner observes the color of his extremities, worries teeth over his lower lip until it starts to redden and chap.

“Fine, but wake me up if things worsen,” Reiner says, voice tired and tinged with resignation.

They hunker down inside their bedrolls as the wind kicks up outside, shift and wriggle with only the slightest of spaces between themselves and the damp ground. But it’s dry inside. Dry and clean and there’s enough space for the two of them to fit comfortably.

Or at least, Armin thinks there’s enough room. It’s all of two minutes before he’s proven wrong, Reiner’s breath flickering against the back of his neck. He startles with a soft noise, shoulders jerking back, bumping against Reiner’s broad chest.

“Need more room?” Armin asks. It’s a futile question, the wall of the tent nearly touching his nose already.

“You’ll stay warmer if we sleep closer,” Reiner says.

Armin can’t argue with that. Shared body heat is vital, both for himself and Reiner as the chill of the storm seeps its way through whatever spots in their tent it can find. Armin doesn’t startle this time when Reiner touches him, hefts a heavy arm up and settles it across the dip of his waist.

A hand is snuck around Armin’s, big enough to nearly hold both of them at once. Reiner’s grip on his hands, the breath against his skin, the way Reiner fits against his back, they’re all still hot. Terribly so.

“You’re too warm,” Armin says.

“And I feel like I’ve got my hand wrapped around icicles.”

“No, not like that, it’s like you have a fever,” Armin says. His fingers curl, sensation slowly returning to them beneath Reiner’s palm.

“I’ve always run hot,” Reiner reassures.

Armin yawns and nods against his pillow. Eren’s like that too, forever warm to the touch, even on the coldest of days. And maybe, just maybe, Reiner seems that much hotter because of the chill outside.

Armin shuts his eyes as his back arches to meet Reiner’s body. It’s not too bad, this warmth. Quite the opposite, really. Something he could get used to.


	2. Chapter 2

As time passes, Armin becomes better acquainted with warmth. He finds it simmering in his veins the more he’s with Reiner, tickling the back of his throat when they speak with one another. It colors his cheeks when Reiner laughs, the sound thrumming deep like the notes of a cello.

Reiner’s lips are as warm as the rest of him when he presses them to Armin’s for the first time. It’s overwhelming, but not unwelcome, a stolen moment in the hazy exhaustion after returning from a training trip. They sprawl on the beds in the barracks with tired bodies and worn minds.

The kiss is tentative, unsure in its force, and Armin brings his hand up to cup the back of Reiner’s neck, urges him closer with lithe fingers until he’s falling back against the mattress with Reiner hovering over him.

The next kiss is bolder, a heavier press, a hint of teeth, the slide of a tongue. Armin’s lips part as the kiss deepens, feels the glance of Reiner’s tongue against his before their noses are bumping.

Their hands both anchor and explore, one of Armin’s still on the back on Reiner’s neck, Reiner’s elbow braced beside him. There’s a free hand smoothing down Armin’s front, skimming over the buttons of his shirt, the snap on his pants. His hips rock up all too hastily when the palm settles against his crotch, presses against the half-erection beneath Armin’s zipper.

When the touch comes to a sudden halt, the friction achingly light and kisses ending abruptly as Reiner lifts his head, Armin opens his eyes. There’s a pink tinge to the tips of Reiner’s ears, one that matches the color of his parted lips. The hazel gold of his eyes is hard to see, nearly eclipsed by dark, blown out pupils.

Which are pointedly not looking at him.

They are instead focused on the figure who is standing beside the bed, tall and lean and gawping at them. Armin jerks up hard enough to knock himself into Reiner’s chest, as though he can pretend they weren’t engaged in a round of heavy petting. All he does is ricochet back off it, hitting the mattress with the squeak of springs and a thud.

“So, uh, a bit busy right now, I take it?” asks Bertholdt.

His tanned skin is speckled with drops of nervous sweat, and he stares like someone who knows they shouldn’t be. He does a thing with his hands that Armin doesn’t quite understand, a kind of wild, apologetic gesticulation, like he’s very sorry but can’t cobble together the words for a proper apology.

Armin is more embarrassed for Bertholdt than he is for himself, especially when a drop of sweat drips from Bertholdt’s jaw and right onto his own hands.

“Do you really need to ask?” Reiner questions. There’s an undercurrent to his voice that Armin’s never heard before, something rasping and dark.

It sends electricity down Armin’s spine.

“No, ‘course not,” Bertholdt says, his voice carrying a tight, self-admonishing edge. “I’ll get out of your hair, make myself scarce.”

The instant the door clicks shut is the instant Reiner’s attentions return to Armin, lips on his neck, teeth nipping light marks onto his skin. He gasps weak and shuts his eyes, breath caught in his throat as the friction at his crotch returns. He bucks and hums, doesn’t worry about who Bertholdt might tell, what he might say.

There’s no sense in keeping secrets here. At a campsite full of teenagers, they aren’t the first to be caught, and they won’t be the last. So Armin continues to move his hips to meet Reiner’s palm, and welcomes it when there’s the whisper of his zipper being pulled down, because he craves this physical comfort.

They all do.

————

The day of their graduation is one of relief, one of few that isn’t overshadowed by apprehension and anxiety. They have made it three years without breaking, without failing, and without caving to the draw of the frontier.

Their grins are poorly disguised behind lips with upturned corners as they are congratulated on their efforts and achievements. While Armin knows he won’t be placing in the prestigious top ten, he’s there to watch the soldiers announced, rocking back on his heels in excitement as the names of his friends are read off.

He congratulates them each in turn, wrapping them up in hugs or grasping their hands tight.

Sasha jumps up and down in response, and Connie slaps his back hard enough to half-knock the wind out of him. Christa graciously accepts his congratulations with a lilting thank you, while Jean plays it off as though he’s been expecting it for ages.

Marco looks a little stunned that he’s passed at all.

Armin gathers Mikasa and Eren to him, an arm around each of them. They’re quick to embrace him in turn, their grip tight as their fingers curl. Mikasa’s chin rests neatly on Armin’s shoulder as Eren’s tucks itself into the crook on the other side. It’s a messy tangle of limbs, but after years of being together it comes easily to them, fits naturally.

“I knew you two would place,” Armin says. They both smell clean, and their uniforms are without creases.

“We all know you should’ve been up there too,” Eren say, his hold on Armin tight enough that he’s sure his bones will start creaking.

“The results were based almost entirely on physical aptitude, Eren,” Mikasa says. “No one doubts that Armin would’ve bested us all if they had taken intellect into account.”

Armin laughs easily, shakes his head at their words.

“I passed, and I’m happy with that. And really, this isn’t about me right now, we should be celebrating for you two and everyone else that did well.”

“Mm, right,” Mikasa says.

“I guess so,” Eren adds. “But it’s still total horseshit.”

When they let go of one another, it’s with soft, fond smiles.

“You two run ahead for now, alright?” Armin asks. “I still have to make some rounds, I’ll catch up with you later.”

Mikasa and Eren leave him with nods and small, quick hugs. He watches them walk with footsteps in sync and backs straight, Eren’s hands moving as he no doubt descends into one of his many fiery speeches.

“Nothing for me?” comes a voice behind him.

Armin doesn’t spook or startle, instead leans back into the body behind him, looks up to find Reiner looking down at him. There’s a serious flash in his eyes that Armin doesn’t expect, a somber coolness.

“You know I was coming for you next,” Armin says. He turns to face Reiner, slips his arms around that broad waist. “Well, you and Bertholdt and Annie, really.”

“They’ve headed off already,” Reiner says, leaning forward, lips skimming soft against Armin’s temple in a kiss. “I’ll pass your sentiments on to them, of course.”

Armin nods in thanks and runs his fingertips over Reiner’s sides, watches him shift and how his lips thin as he represses a reflexive giggle at the ticklish sensation.

“You should be proud of yourself,” Armin says. “I know I am.”

The noise that Reiner makes in the back of his throat is low and distracted. Not unhappy, but preoccupied.

“Why not take the night to relax? Everyone else is,” Armin says. “We could find somewhere nice and quiet, I’ll give you a reward for how well you’ve done.”

Armin hooks his fingers into Reiner’s belt loops and brings their hips together, though the difference in their height makes it a less effective hint than he’d like.

“Maybe later,” Reiner says, his gaze averted but his cheeks are pink, the gesture not lost on him. “I still have things left to do.”

Armin doesn’t pout, but if he did, that’d be precisely why Reiner kisses him.

\-----

The next day is one filled with grunt work and mindless preparation, activities easy on the mind but hard on the body. Their one reprieve in the day is when those within the wall gather to watch the return of the Survey Corps.

The only reason Armin finds Reiner is because he bumps into Bertholdt first, manages to get a faceful of shirt before he’s jumping back and apologizing.

"It’s no sweat," Bertholdt says, brushing past him with hardly a glance.

Reiner walks in his wake.

“I heard the mess hall is open early today,” Reiner says, pausing in his footsteps. “Why don’t you head over there and see if you can snag some meat before it’s gone?”

“I wish it were that easy, but I have to meet everyone at the top of the wall to make sure the cannons are in working order,” Armin says.

“I doubt anyone would notice if you weren’t there,” Reiner says. There’s a note in his voice that sounds like a plea. “We have to deal with the walls every day, don’t you get sick of it? Just go eat instead, I’ll cover for you if anyone asks.”

“A-alright, I’ll see about getting dinner,” Armin says. Maybe they’ll be done by the time he gets there and he can snag Eren and Mikasa, make sure they both get hardy meals before they pick their assignments tomorrow.

In the end Armin catches up to the rest of his recently disbanded unit at the wall before eating, and in the end, amidst the sudden attack and subsequent terror, he regrets not listening to Reiner.

—————-

Armin watches many people die, one of which is Reiner.

But then Reiner is not dead. He’s escaping the hold of the Female Titan with a flurry of spinning blades and momentum, blood spurting from her palm before he reaches the ground. The instant his feet touch earth he’s moving, racing toward Armin and hauling him up under one arm like he’s weightless.

There’s heat and steam that Armin can’t explain, things gone too quickly for him to mention. He puts it down to the fog of war and violence around them, the blood matting his hair and dripping into his eyes.

He doesn’t truly believe Reiner has survived, that this isn’t all some terrible traumatic dream, until they return to the walls. It’s only when he can cup Reiner’s face in his hands, thumbs the skin of his cheeks, that Armin lets out what feels like breath he’s been holding for days.

Reiner leans into his touch with a dip of his head, lets his eyes close for a moment. The exhale that slips between his lips is weary, and his weight rests heavy on Armin as the entirety of his body sags.

“How’s your arm doing?” Armin asks, voice soft and concerned.

“Fine, it’ll be fine,” Reiner assures. “Nothing but a love nip.”

“You’ll have to let me look it over in the barracks,” Armin says, slipping his hands from Reiner’s face to take hold of his good arm.

Armin leads Reiner to the barracks without another word, only companionable silence. The people they pass on the way all seem to walk in a tired trance, the entirety of them running on too little sleep, or none at all.

Armin’s not sure he knows how many days have passed since the second attack on the wall now. It’s all coagulated into a mess of nonstop recollections, smoke and bodies and debris, the titans making their way through the newly-made hole.

Eren being eaten before his eyes, only to become a titan. Only to help them as no titan ever had before, and then faced immediately with death. The quick words he’d had to come up with to save their lives, and the aftermath of Eren’s trial.

Armin doesn’t think about the clean up or the burning bodies. His mind still works though, thinks of Annie. Another titan shifter, destructive and unstoppable. There must be more, but how many, and do they all want Eren?

“Whoa now, don’t tell me you’re going to pass out before we even make it to bed,” Reiner says, pulling Armin from his thoughts.

He’s the one sagging now. Or maybe it’s more that he’s being held upright completely by Reiner’s strength. He doesn’t remember starting to lean.

“Sorry, I was thinking,” Armin says. He tries to shake the thoughts from his head, but they stick fast.

“You’re real smart,” Reiner says as he opens the door to the barracks, his hold still strong on Armin. “Almost too smart for your own good, sometimes. Right now isn’t the time to think, though. You try and figure it all out in that pretty head of yours and you’ll stay screwy for ages.”

“I’m not screwy,” Armin says as they make their way past already-filled beds.

“Sorry, the word I was looking for was ‘overwhelmed,’” Reiner says with a low, apologetic laugh. “Either way, I’ll be the crazier one of the two of us if I don’t sleep soon.”

Neither of them bother to change into sleeping clothes when they make their way to their bed. Reiner hits the mattress first with a thwump, sighs as his body melts against the sheets he’s too exhausted to pull over himself.

Armin sits instead, clear-headed enough to recall that Reiner’s injuries need looking over. Reiner lies on his back for Armin, bad arm closest and eyes already shut, expression quickly taking on the peace of sleep.

Armin undoes Reiner’s sling with careful fingers, wary of inducing pain. The bandages that wrap his forearm are stained with dark, dried blood. Armin peels them away. The sight of the injury is surprisingly clean and devoid of bruising.

What was once a deep bite mark is now a nearly shallow wound. Armin thinks his mind must be playing tricks on him. That time has blurred too greatly for him, and this is an old wound, something he only thinks has just happened.

Yet he cannot convince himself that what he’s witnessing is a fabrication of his mind. There is flesh knitting together before his eyes, inflammation lessening as a scab quickly forms, then the fading of that as skin starts to repair.

From a bloodied bite mark comes fresh, raw skin. Red and sensitive before it fades to the pink, raised surface of a scar.

Armin gingerly rewraps Reiner’s arm like it’s a secret he’s not meant to see. Like something he doesn’t want to see.

“Reiner,” he says, the words barely making it past his lips. “Were you wounded during the attack on the wall? You should let me treat those as well.”

Reiner yawns and barely opens an eye.

“Mm? I survived just fine. I was at the canons checking their mechanisms like everyone else. I wasn’t as eager to hop up on that sucker’s back like Eren was, though.”

Armin nods and swallows around a very large knot in his throat that doesn’t budge.

“I’m glad you made it out alright,” Armin says.

But Reiner didn’t make it out alright. He couldn’t escape scot free from a place he’d never been to begin. Him, Bertholdt, and Annie. They’d all been missing faces at the time of the attack.

Armin doesn’t retie the sling on Reiner’s arm, can’t bring himself to pretend it would make a difference. He lays down instead, carefully lowers himself like a man who isn’t sure he’ll be able to get back up.

In the dingy barracks with the too-crowded accommodations, among the sound of two dozen bodies softly breathing in the dreamless sleep of the exhausted, Armin cries to himself. He cries to himself because at last it is too much, and he wants the world to be as black and white as it is in his books.

Reiner rolls onto his side and lugs an arm over Armin, the one that’s supposed to be bad. The one that’s healed all too quickly.

“Get some rest already, Armin,” he says. “Don’t worry about titans for now. There’s no reason to, I’ll keep you safe.”

The conviction in his voice scares Armin, because it sounds all too genuine. Especially for someone who’s a titan themself.

\-----

When Armin wakes, it’s still dark, and Reiner is still there, albeit it halfway more awake.

“Rise and shine, it’s titan time,” comes Hanji’s voice, a light sing-song.

“I don’t want to train today,” comes another voice, a weary groan of a noise.

“Yes, well, you’ll be very excited to learn that we won’t be doing that, then,” Hanji continues. “We’re going on a mission.”

“What kind of a mission?” Reiner asks. He props himself up on his elbow, his wrapped arm still resting over Armin.

Armin wonders when he took to using Reiner’s chest as a pillow as he slides off it, and wonders what’s wrong with him for not talking right then and there.

“Now that’s the spirit I like to see,” Hanji says. “Little Mr. Springer mentioned some interesting things about his old village, and as time is so very much of the essence these days, we’re leaving sooner than later.”

“We can’t go out on a scouting mission without sleeping,” Armin says, eyelids heavy and lips slow to move.

“Armin, you’ve been asleep for sixteen hours. Sixteen incredibly well-deserved hours, of course, but we have to keep moving, especially while it’s dark.”

That gets Armin up faster than a slap to the face, Reiner right behind him.

They’re washed, dressed, and fed within an hour, hands all over one another with the purpose of their service in mind instead of their hormones.

“I want this to be over,” Armin says, tightening the last strap across Reiner’s chest.

“It will be over soon, and then we can rest,” Reiner says.

He leans in and kisses Armin. Not on the cheek, not on the lips, but at the pale indent behind Armin’s ear. The spot that’s sure to raise a trail of goosebumps along Armin’s flesh and quiet him down, leaves him gripping at Reiner’s arms.

He thinks he should be disgusted at this, at the thought of kissing a titan shifter, but the part of him that’s attached to Reiner, the upstanding, strong soldier, leans into the touch.

As they saddle their horses, Armin wants to believe there’s something more to what he knows. That even as titan shifters, Reiner and Bertholdt can be trusted. But they’ve killed so many, destroyed so much.

They ride side by side, horses cantering and eyes set ahead. The moon hangs high in the sky, full and huge and lighting their path. Flare guns rest in their holsters in case of emergency, but the only disruption is a family of deer, heads hung low as they graze.

The scouting unit is full of newly-graduated faces making small chatter on horseback to pass the time. Hanji leads them on, taking Levi’s place as he recovers from the injuries inflicted on him by the Female Type titan. From Annie.

No one talks about Annie, or that the records show that Reiner and Bertholdt are from the same area.

Armin watches his teammates more than he watches where he’s going. His gaze flits from Reiner, whose stoic expression betrays nothing, to Bertholdt, who matches pace with Ymir as he speaks with her.

Armin wishes they wouldn’t talk, especially when Ymir throws her head back with a laugh. Her lips curl in a smile as though she’s gotten in on a very sweet deal, and Armin’s blood turns to ice.

Connie’s village is hardly that when they arrive. The roofs are crushed and the ground is torn up from the footfalls of titans. But there are no titans. There are no bodies. No birds circle above or scavenge remains, and the scent of decay that follows an attack is very much absent.

“Such a curious scene,” Hanji says as she dismounts her horse. “What do you make of it, Armin?”

Armin licks his lips, but doesn’t answer. He’s not focused on what little is left of the village, but instead the two figures of those who have already dismounted and stand together. It’s Reiner and Bertholdt, grips too tight on already-unsheathed swords. They’re speaking, and quickly. Bertholdt has the nervous look in his eyes that always creeps in when plans are being discussed.

“I need to look around a bit more before I can really tell,” Armin says, a weak excuse that Hanji takes at face value with a nod.

When Armin nears the duo, they break apart. Reiner’s hands go slack on his swords and he slides them back into his gear, the furrow of concentration between his brows smoothing out.

“Not much here, is there?” he asks. “Makes me wish we’d have stayed in bed.”

“You were looking like you’d found something worthwhile over here,” Armin says.

“Hm? Hardly. All we got over here is Eren kicking up rocks all by his lonesome,” Reiner says, jerking his thumb at the inside of the wreckage of the cottage they stand by.

Eren looks up with a grunt, shifting a fallen rafter with his foot. He has a way of looking completely at home in the dirt, alone with his thoughts. Alone with Reiner and Bertholdt.

There’s the crack of dry grass giving, and Armin glances to the side without ever moving his head. He can make out Ymir’s shape from the corner of his vision. She looks like she’s waiting for a signal.

“What a mistake heading out here this was,” Reiner says. “Don’t you think so, Armin?”

Armin agrees for very different reasons.

“I think we’ve all made a lot of mistakes lately,” he says. “And I think some of us have made ones greater than others.”

“What a way to talk,” Bertholdt says. He shakes his head in that slow, funny way of his. “What are you going on about?”

“I have to stop you from making another one,” Armin says.

“That female titan knock your head too hard, or what?” Reiner asks. He’s smiling, but it’s fixed as though it’s a strain for it to reach his eyes.

Armin is a soldier first, and a friend second.

He shouts for the unit to gather, and the seconds are short before they arrive, expressions on edge and looking to one another for more information. Hanji pushes her goggles up as she approaches Armin from behind, her hand going to rest on his shoulder.

“Found something of interest?” she asks, peering around.

“Titans,” Armin says, fingers curling around the hilts of his blades.

Hanji nods once, her hands falling to her gear, readying her weapons. The entire unit follows suit.

With Eren still behind him, cornered now in the wreckage with confusion written across his features, Reiner laughs. It’s a low, regretful noise that bubbles in the back of his throat as he shakes his head. Next to him, Bertholdt’s shoulders drop in a sort of resignation.

Reiner says only one thing before the night is lit up with the crackling electricity and steam of their transformations.

“Guess you really were too smart for your own good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end, but for some reason AO3 is refusing to let me mark it as such. Hopefully it will knock off the '2/?' nonsense soon enough. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed the story!


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